


I'm So Bored with the USA

by hairbearstare



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairbearstare/pseuds/hairbearstare
Summary: Eames is twenty and living in the USA. Arthur owns a small pub. Eames discovers it and is immediately infatuated with Arthur the bartender.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fic exchange from April 2011 on Livejournal. More old Livejournal things.

It was Saturday night and Eames had a fake ID.  
  
Upon moving to the United States when he was eighteen, it took him exactly one week to decide that the States’ drinking laws were completely absurd. Back home in England, he could sit himself down in a pub, watch whatever match they had playing and drink himself into a slow burning stupor, maybe even pick up a body for the night. Eighteen was a fabulous age to be in England. In the United States, all you could do was buy porn or join the army. A fabulous lot of options he had.  
  
So he decided to forge himself a New York state driver’s license, naming his age as twenty-one. It was shockingly easy to fool most club owners and bartenders. He definitely looked older than eighteen at the time, but he wasn’t quite sure if he would pass off as twenty-one. Apparently he was wrong.  
  
Now that he was twenty, it was a tad frustrating to still have to use a fake ID when he wanted to go and have a drink. Even _Canadians_ had the luxury of going and drinking at that age—even the _Japanese_ could go and buy a few drinks at twenty.  
  
But of course, the Americans had to have the ridiculous age of _twenty-one_ as their legal age. So even though he felt more than old enough to be able to hit the town at twenty, the law still said no. It was, of course, quite easy to get around the law, but it was the principle of the matter.  
  
But he would be damned if his age was going to stop him from having a night on the town. So he wandered about the New York streets, passing by strip clubs with flashing neon lights and nightclubs with pounding bass-driven music that could be heard from the streets. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for a rowdy club with sweating bodies pressed together at every which angle, or a strip club which was basically the same thing, but with less clothes and more money being slipped into girls’ g-strings.   
  
He wanted the sort of thing he could get back in England—a nice, quiet, smoky pub with the match on and a friendly bartender. It was surprisingly difficult to find in a big city like New York. Irritatingly difficult. It took him nearly an hour wandering around Brooklyn to find somewhere that even resembled a nice English pub. It was small and dim with a dark wood finished bar. There were shelves behind the bar stacked with mugs and _rows_ of different bottles. Certainly a well-stocked little place.  
  
Eames shrugged and walked out of the doorway into the pub. He sat down at the bar, tapping his hands on the top, looking around for a bartender. He glanced up and watched the hockey game playing at that moment and he absently watched it as he waited for someone behind the bar.  
  
“Can I get you something?”  
  
Eames almost jumped as he heard the voice. He looked up, intent on asking for a—oh fuck.  
  
“Um.” Eames just _stared_.  
  
The bartender was _ravishing_ —lean body accented by a dashing little waistcoat and fantastically fitting white button-down; hair slicked back and cut impeccably, framing his sharp features and even sharper brown eyes. He was leaning on the bar, single eyebrow raised as those eyes raked over Eames.  
  
Eames tried to swallow whatever was preventing him from speaking and grinned to hide it. “Um. Beer,” he managed to choke out, coughing.  
  
The bartender rolled his eyes. “ID?”  
  
“Ah, right. Um. Here,” Eames mumbled, mentally kicking himself over how horrendously _lame_ he sounded. It wasn’t often that he came across someone who made him feel so flustered, much less a bartender. He tried to remind himself how to speak properly as he fished his fake ID out of his pocket and slid it over the counter.  
  
The bartender picked it up and inspected it carefully before smirking and sliding it back. “It’s impressive,” he sighed, shaking his head, “but I can’t serve you if all you have to give me is a fake.”  
  
Eames’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. There was no _way_ this guy could tell his fake from a real ID. His fake IDs were impeccable and could pass for real anywhere. It was what he did back in high school in England to make some extra cash. He was very good at forging these sorts of things. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Show me some other form of ID or I’m not going to serve you. Something real would be preferable.” The bartender was still smirking and looked irritatingly smug.  
  
“This is ridiculous,” Eames grumbled, looking through his wallet to see if he kept a spare—he usually did, just in case. But, as his luck would have it, that driver’s license was the only one he bothered to pack around that night. “I haven’t got anything else.”  
  
“Really,” the bartender hummed, folding his arms over his chest. “That’s too bad. Looks like you’re going to have to find somewhere else, then.”  
  
“Are you serious?” Eames scoffed. “There is absolutely no way that you can say that piece of ID is fake. Absolutely no way.”  
  
“Look,” the bartender let out a long sigh, “I’ve dealt with my share of kids coming in here and handing me pieces like this. Just because this is a very impressive forgery doesn’t mean I can’t tell. Now, you can sit there, drink a Coke and watch the game, or you can leave.”  
  
“I’d like to speak to the owner.”  
  
The bartender simply stared at Eames, smirk widening into the _smuggest_ grin he had ever seen.  
  
Oh, _fuck_.  
  
“You’re joking,” Eames said flatly.  
  
“Not at all,” the bartender— _owner_ —chuckled. “Now, what’ll it be? Coke or milk?”  
  
Eames groaned and laid his head on the bar counter. “You Yanks are ridiculous. This is complete rubbish. Twenty-one? I mean _really_.”  
  
“I know, but the law’s the law. I can’t knowingly serve a minor.” The bartender suddenly looked quite serious, leaning down close to Eames. “I’ve put too much into this place to lose it because I served some kid a beer. I can’t risk it. You got it?”  
  
Eames blinked and very nearly shrunk under that hard stare. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it,” he breathed, pulling back the slightest bit. “I guess... Coke, then.”  
  
It felt so degrading, ordering a Coke in a _bar_. But the bartender grinned, and those dimples made an appearance, and Eames suddenly felt his heart stall a little. This man was unfairly handsome.  
  
“I’m Eames... by the way,” he blurted out before he knew what he was saying, taking the glass of fizzy beverage the bartender had laid on the counter. “And I’m _twenty_.”  
  
“So close and yet so far,” the bartender hummed. “Arthur.”  
  
He walked away after that, going to wipe down some tables and count tips on them. Eames watched him go—and maybe watched the way his hips swayed in those beautifully cut trousers—before staring back at the television. He barely touched the Coke and simply sat there and wallowed in the fact that he had been caught, and yet still _stayed_. It was somewhat demeaning to his character—he had gotten away with using a fake countless times, and every time he had been caught, he left the place immediately in search of some place new.  
  
But he stayed and nursed his Coke until he had finished, and left painfully sober.  
  
The only thing he had on his mind as he walked to the subway was how striking Arthur looked bending over and wiping tables.  
  
  
  
Weeks went by and Eames went to other clubs and bars in the area. He tried the fashionable nightclubs with glowing dance floors, the underground gay club during its fetish night, the dive bars, the rave clubs, but as soon as he left, he always went back to Arthur’s little place to wind down. Sometimes he was fantastically drunk, and sometimes just a little buzzed. He had spouted some pretty embarrassing come-ons when he went there strung out on E and vowed never to do that again because Arthur ignored him for the rest of the night.  
  
The point was that he found Arthur’s pub rather comfortable. He always provided water and maybe an Aspirin or two, sometimes a glass of milk and a sandwich, if he asked. Arthur was always pleasant enough, if a little dry. He didn’t take any shit from Eames.  
  
He never went to Arthur’s pub sober, though. He was always either at a club or another bar beforehand, so he could pass off his blatant staring to alcohol. Arthur was _incredibly_ attractive, and quite brilliant as well. Eames once brought along _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ to read with him once—it was for a class—as he was only slightly buzzed and didn’t feel like watching a hockey match. Instead of reading it, however, he spent the remainder of his night prattling on to Arthur about character development in the novel, symbolism and metaphor. Arthur had pointed out things to Eames in the book that he hadn’t realized with a quick read. He could definitely use Arthur’s observations in an upcoming essay.  
  
Eames was shit at writing, though. He was a psychology major and writing essays was definitely not his forte. He preferred quick write-ups and research papers over long, drawn-out observations of extended metaphor in a piece of writing.  
  
It was one such night, when Eames was in the midst of writing an essay, that he stumbled into Arthur’s only half-drunk and rather miserable.  
  
“Can I just get a couple Aspirin, darling?” he sighed, sitting down at the bar and raking a hand through his hair.  
  
Arthur placed the pills and before he could follow with water, Eames had already dry swallowed them. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Rough day?”  
  
“The roughest,” Eames laughed lightly, shaking his head.  
  
“What happened, your girlfriend dump you?”  
  
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Eames snorted, sending Arthur a _look_ and maybe holding it a bit too long. “No, no, I’m just trying to wrap my head around writing this essay for my English Lit class,” he groaned, staring at the ceiling.  
  
“That’s it?”  
  
“My writing is horrible,” Eames sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I can never quite find enough focus in my essays, apparently. They’re never organized quite right. My grammar is shit, so is my spelling,” he grumbled. “It’s awful, I really can’t be arsed to spend longer than I have to on the thing. I want to do well, really, but it doesn’t come to me like it does everyone else, so I just don’t... bother a lot of the time.”  
  
Arthur frowned and stared at Eames for a moment. It looked like he was mentally debating something and Eames felt himself staring back. “You know, Eames,” Arthur said slowly, “I minored in Art History in university. I know a thing or two about essays. If you wanted to... bring yours in, I could proofread it. It sounds like that’s all you need.”  
  
Eames stared at Arthur incredulously. “You would... do that for me.”  
  
“Why not?” Arthur shrugged. “Gives me something to do when this place is slow.”  
  
Eames couldn’t help but blink. He was just rather shocked that Arthur—the lovely, devilishly handsome _bartender_ —would be bothered to take time out of his day to _proofread an essay_ ; would _care_ enough to give him a hand. It all seemed farfetched.  
  
“Um... I mean, yeah. That would be... fantastic, really.” Eames grinned. “Thanks.”  
  
Arthur shrugged again and shot Eames one of those smiles that made his heart stutter in his chest.  
  
  
  
Thanks to Arthur, Eames managed to earn himself a B-. Arthur said that his writing was shit, but he had everything there. He just needed to organize it.  
  
It was lovely—Arthur was lovely. They had almost become friends with the amount of time that Eames spent talking to him. He even started coming in sober, when he didn’t have to, just to see Arthur. Arthur didn’t seem to mind, and Eames certainly didn’t.  
  
Strange as it was to forge a friendship with a bartender, it was nice. Arthur was that outside presence from his life. He wasn’t his roommate and best mate, Yusuf, wasn’t Yusuf’s girlfriend, Ariadne, wasn’t any of his friends from classes—he was someone removed from Eames’s life who could listen objectively. He never gave advice, really, but Eames liked spilling his guts occasionally. It was good to say things out loud and have someone listen. Bartenders were probably _trained_ in that sort of thing, though, and every time Eames thought about _that_ , he felt his heart sink a little.  
  
What he wanted was to get closer to Arthur. He didn’t _just_ want to fuck him (anymore), but wanted to actually know him, perhaps.  
  
Arthur had this brilliant mind, quick-witted, razor-sharp humour and, yes, a _fantastic_ ass.  
  
“So how’d that essay on _Dorian Gray_ go over?” Arthur asked absently one night, wiping down another table and putting the chairs upside down on top. The place was closing for the night and Eames had decided to stick around and to help out.  
  
“B-. My professor took me aside after class to say I had improved,” Eames chuckled.  
  
“Good.” Arthur grinned, putting up more chairs. “What did you say you were majoring in?”  
  
“Psychology,” Eames sighed, wiping down the bar counter. “Might try my hand at child psychology. Children are really fascinating in the way they think. It’s hard to grasp once you’ve grown up and lost it. I want to try and understand _why_ we lose it, why that childhood reverie just disappears over time. I’d like to work with kids someday, study the way they think.”  
  
Arthur smiled, rather fondly. “I can see it. Quit going out and drinking and I think you’d be good with kids. You just have to be a good role model first.”  
  
“Piss off!” Eames scoffed, tossing the rag in Arthur’s direction.  
  
They both laughed though and continued on with their work. “Hey, Arthur.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I was wondering if you’d want to come back to my place tonight,” Eames breathed out, almost mumbling and he was actually _nervous_ , for fuck’s sake. “I’m... I’m quite famished, and I have leftover Chinese. My roommate’s out with his girlfriend tonight, so we could just hang out for a bit, maybe watch a movie or something. Maybe?”  
  
“Eames. It’s three in the morning.”  
  
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Eames said quickly, feeling his stomach drop. He picked up the rag at Arthur’s feet and tried not to look at him in the face. “I just thought it might be fun.”  
  
Arthur let out a sigh through his nose and leaned back on the bar counter. “I don’t know. I mean, I have to _sleep_ at some point,” he mumbled. “But... you know what? Why not? Fine. Place is closed tomorrow anyways and I’m hungry.”  
  
Eames couldn’t contain the grin that threatened to split his face in two.  
  
  
  
Eames, if he was asked, wouldn’t be able to coherently explain the nervous clenching of his stomach and the sweating of his palms as he led Arthur up to his tiny apartment. The only explanation he could think of was the fact that Arthur was older and sophisticated—not to mention devastatingly handsome. And the fact that he was now _outside the pub_ and joining Eames to actually spend some time together _like friends_ made his heart do backflips.  
  
So he let Arthur in and groaned at the mess Yusuf had left in the kitchen—chemistry shit laying everywhere; strange concoctions of God-knows-what in beakers, test tubes left in racks, a Bunsen burner on the counter and countless books stacked on any available surface.  
  
“Sorry about the mess. Roommate’s some sort of chemist, don’t ask me what because I honestly have no idea,” Eames sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tea?”  
  
“At this time of night?” Arthur raised an eyebrow, smirking the tiniest bit and glancing around.  
  
“I have _many_ kinds of tea,” he laughed. “Chamomile, if you like. Lemon and ginger, green, lemon green, ginger green, passion fruit, Earl Grey, spiced chai—”  
  
“Okay, okay, stop,” Arthur snickered. “I get it. You own the tea aisle at a grocery store.”  
  
“Any tea you can think of, I probably have,” Eames hummed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.  
  
“I’ll forgive you because you’re British.”  
  
“Thank you, darling,” Eames snorted, throwing on the kettle anyways and preparing himself a cup of Earl Grey and Arthur a cup of chamomile. They sat in the kitchen quietly and Eames suddenly felt the weight of the Awkward Silence looming over him. He tried to think of something to say, but really, it was almost four in the morning and they were at Eames’s apartment waiting for _tea_. What was he supposed to say?  
  
“Where’s the Chinese?” Arthur asked suddenly, pushing back from the counter to dig in the fridge. “Wait, never mind, found it.” He grabbed a fork and dug right in.  
  
Eames pulled a face. “You eat it cold?”  
  
“Why not? It’s just as good cold as it is hot.”  
  
“That’s positively revolting. Chinese food is simply not meant to be eaten cold, Arthur.”  
  
“Oh really?” Arthur scoffed, after swallowing a mouthful of chow mein. “Says who?”  
  
“Says... life. I don’t know. It’s one of those unwritten rules!”  
  
“I like it,” Arthur hummed, smiling, cheeks dimpling and Eames felt his heart skip several beats. He considered telling Arthur not to do that because every time he did, Eames felt the urge to kiss those adorable dimples nearly irresistible. It was ridiculous how good looking Arthur was.  
  
“Still gross,” Eames sighed, trying to clear his head of inappropriate thoughts. The kettle decided to start squealing at that moment though, and thank _God_ because Eames didn’t know how much longer he could hold out simply staring at Arthur and not doing anything to him. He poured the tea deftly and handed one mug off to Arthur, who accepted it and wandered off to the living room.  
  
Eames ended up putting on _Saving Private Ryan_ because he’d seen it so many times that he didn’t need to pay attention and could instead focus on Arthur’s presence beside him. Arthur finished off the box of chow mein about ten minutes into the movie and cradled the mug of tea in both his hands instead. He sipped at it until it went cold and _oh_ how jealous Eames was of that of the mug. Arthur seemed to have this habit of sipping tea and then _sucking_ on the rim of the mug; if some spilled over the side, he would poke out his tongue and lick along the length of the entire thing and then just rest his lips on the rim again.  
  
It was probably the most erotic tea drinking that Eames had ever witnessed. And he had lived in _England_.  
  
Jesus fucking Christ. Eames was starting to think this was all a very bad idea because all he wanted to do when Arthur laid down his mug was kiss the life out of him. His eyes were drooping and his lips were still wet and shiny and looking oh-so-kissable.  
  
Eames just tried to concentrate on the movie but when Arthur’s head dropped onto his shoulder, dead asleep, it was very, _very_ difficult. He groaned mentally and cursed whatever higher power had made this happen—Arthur, beautiful, amazing, Arthur, was asleep against his shoulder.  
  
Eames switched off the television quickly after and shifted to get comfortable. His heart was hammering in his chest and it was difficult to even _think_ about sleep with Arthur there, but he certainly did try.  
  
The next thing he knew, he was awake, Arthur-less and the sun was shining in his eyes. He groaned and shielded them, glancing around the room. He padded into the kitchen, only to find a note on top of a pile of cold pancakes. He frowned before beginning to read.  
  
 _Eames,  
  
Sorry for falling asleep on you. I made pancakes to make up for it.  
  
See you later,  
Arthur_  
  
Eames bit his lip to contain the overwhelming, frightening swell of fondness that he felt.  
  
  
  
The day that Eames turned twenty-one, he swooped straight into Arthur’s pub with a legitimate ID and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.  
  
“Beer, please,” he cooed, leaning in close to Arthur.  
  
Arthur only raised an eyebrow and then grinned rather widely. “Shouldn’t you be out with your _friends_ on your birthday, Mr. Eames?”  
  
“You’re a friend, too!” Eames scoffed. Arthur planted a bottle up on the counter and Eames couldn’t help but feel triumphant. Finally, he was legal everywhere on the planet. Not even ridiculous United States drinking age could contain him now. No matter where he went, he could have a drink without using one of his fake IDs. It was shockingly gratifying to actually take a sip of beer that he had bought with his own ID for once.  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes but there was something soft in his expression that Eames couldn’t quite place. “Congratulations on finally being legal,” he laughed. “Now you can come here without the pretence of seeing me.”  
  
“I will anyways, though, of course,” Eames hummed.  
  
“Of course,” Arthur snorted. “Planning on getting pretty wasted tonight, I take it?”  
  
“What else would I do on my twenty-first birthday?” Eames chuckled. “A few mates are taking me out to some clubs around town and then Yusuf and Ariadne are going to drag me back home and make me play Candy Land,” he snickered. “Not joking.”  
  
“You have some strange friends, Mr. Eames,” Arthur sighed. “But I have a present for you, too.”  
  
Eames’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “You do? You didn’t have to get me anything, Arthur, nobody else did. I mean, I didn’t even _tell_ anyone what I wanted and—”  
  
“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur hissed, flicking Eames’s forehead. “Quiet.”  
  
“Right. Sorry, darling. What is it?”  
  
“Here.” Arthur handed him a small, neatly folded piece of paper.  
  
Eames opened it and looked confused for a moment. All that was written on it was an address and a time.  
  
“It’s my address,” Arthur answered before he could ask. “Be there tomorrow night at that time when you’ve sobered up and I’ll give it to you.”  
  
“Why can’t you just give it to me now?”  
  
“Because, for one, I very nearly forgot your birthday, despite your constant reminders, so I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbled. “It’s nothing big. But you’ll like it.”  
  
Eames grinned and far too many dirty, inappropriate images flooded his mind. He quickly squashed them down before nodding quickly and pushing the piece of paper into his pocket. He took another swig from his beer bottle and smiled. “See you there.”  
  
  
  
Eames felt like his heart was going to explode by the time he arrived in front of Arthur’s building. His hands were very nearly shaking with the sheer amount of nervous energy pulsing through him. He had never been inside Arthur’s flat before—Arthur had come over to his a couple more times since the first time, but Arthur had never asked Eames to his place before. He was all nerves and his chest felt like it was pressing down on this lungs and he couldn’t _breathe_ properly and, sure, he was overreacting but this was _Arthur_ , not some chick he picked up or a one night stand.  
  
This was _Arthur_. Arthur was something special to Eames, something else. Not quite a friend, not someone he wanted to fuck just to fuck, not completely an emotional attachment—he was different. He was all of those and none of those. He turned Eames on more than anybody else he had ever met but he didn’t want it to end with just a quick fuck. He wanted to actually spend time around him, _with_ him and that sounded so lame and cheesy, but it was so true.  
  
If he were completely honest with himself, he would say he wanted a relationship with Arthur. But Lord knows tagging something as a ‘relationship’ fucked things up. Things wouldn’t be simple and light and easy between them anymore. There was a _heaviness_ that came with labelling something as a relationship.  
  
That didn’t seem to stop him from wanting it still, though.  
  
He rang the buzzer to Arthur’s apartment, was buzzed in and found himself numbly riding the elevator to Arthur’s floor. He felt like his stomach was fluttering, his fingers twitching at his sides. He was just so unreasonably nervous.  
  
He even wore a tie for the occasion. Arthur always looked so posh, so dressed up. Eames figured he would at least try if Arthur was going to invite him into his home.  
  
When Arthur answered the door, he hoped he wasn’t sweating. “Darling,” he hummed, grinning to hide how nervous he felt.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur chuckled, ushering Eames inside. He took in his surroundings—spacious apartment, carpeted in plush white with gorgeous hardwood in the kitchen. An interesting mixture of antique and modern furniture, some odd looking art adorning the walls. Splatter paintings. A print of Monet’s water lilies.  
  
“Pollock,” Arthur said quickly, pointing at one of the splatters. “It was my father’s.”  
  
“Ah,” Eames hummed. He supposed he should know who this Pollock bloke was, but he really had no idea and he suddenly felt embarrassed. He wished he knew more about art and culture and things of the like, but he had never really taken the time to study up on that sort of thing.  
  
“So your present,” Arthur sighed, straightening up. “I just... I made dinner,” he mumbled. “It’s... I hope you like steak and potatoes with steamed greens. Because that’s what I made. Oh and, uh... I got a nice Merlot to go with it. I don’t even know if you like red wine, but it’ll go nicely with the beef, so—”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames breathed, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. He felt that surge of fondness burgeoning once again and he tried so hard to push it down and failing miserably. “Arthur, this is really all so...”  
  
“Lame? I know, but I didn’t know what else to get you.”  
  
“No, no, no,” Eames sighed, rolling his eyes. “This is lovely, _really_ lovely.” He couldn’t help the smile that broke his shock and reverie. “Thank you.”  
  
Arthur blinked a couple times, obviously trying to contain a relieved grin. “Oh. Good, um, well... sit down. It’s ready.”  
  
They sat and they ate and sipped wine and talked. It was quiet and it was intimate and it was almost more than Eames could handle. As he drank more and more wine, however, he felt his resolve not to lean forward and _kiss_ Arthur crumbling and it was starting to scare him. He wanted to, _fuck_ did he want to, but he couldn’t because Arthur was a friend and it ended there.  
  
He didn’t want to fuck it up. He didn’t. He _really_ didn’t.  
  
But as dinner was finished and the wine was buzzing in his head, he couldn’t help but just stare at Arthur and _smile_. He looked to irresistibly gorgeous—face flushed and smiling comfortably, dimples just barely visible, hair loose against his head and tie hanging undone against his shirt. Eames wanted to reach out and brush his fingers down those high cheekbones, to his jaw, maybe brush over those beautiful lips. He wanted to cup the back of his neck and feel the tiny strands of hair there and lean so close that they were almost touching but not. He wanted to breathe in and simply take in the fact that it was Arthur, who was breathtaking and brilliant and lovely.  
  
He didn’t realize that his eyes had slipped shut before all he could feel was warm breath against his lips and a hand on his cheek  
  
His eyes flew open and he jerked back, jaw falling slack as he stared at Arthur, who was still _so fucking close_. “What... darling, what are you doing?”  
  
“I thought—” Arthur paused, clearing his throat and looking almost _dejected_ , “I thought you wanted this.”  
  
Eames’s mouth went dry and his palms were starting to sweat again. Oh. _Fuck_.   
  
“I...” Eames trailed off, suddenly unable to form a coherent sentence; suddenly unable to form a coherent _thought_. Arthur had just tried to kiss him. _Arthur_ had just tried to kiss him. He couldn’t count the number of fantasies and daydreams he’d had about just _kissing_ Arthur and it had almost happened and Eames was buzzed and _that_ on top of everything was making his head spin nauseatingly. He supposed that came off badly, like he didn’t want to, like he was freaked out—which he was, but for a completely different reason.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quickly, shaking his head and beginning to pull back.  
  
“No, no, wait,” Eames croaked, grabbing onto Arthur’s shoulder. “I didn’t think—I mean... I guess I had never imagined you would ever want me. That way.”  
  
Arthur’s expression suddenly shifted to incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? Eames, come on. I proofread your essays. I go over to your house. I listen to _all your problems_ , no matter how ludicrously stupid they are. I made you dinner. I made you _pancakes_ for fuck’s sake. Most bartenders don’t do that for their customers.”  
  
Eames’s mouth opened and closed, gaping like a fish out of water. “I just...” he mumbled, “I just...” he paused, trying to gather whatever pieces of coherency he could find. “Arthur, I am absolutely _mad_ about you.”  
  
Arthur looked hesitant. “Really.”  
  
“Really.” Eames nodded.  
  
Arthur hummed before that smile returned to his face. His eyes were dark as he stared at Eames. He reached forward, hand on Eames’s cheek again, fingers stroking the stubble that was there. “Good.”  
  
He closed the gap between them, lips still barely there, mostly breath against Eames’s. Eames shuddered and anchored his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, feeling like he could honestly fall apart at any second. He pushed forward and nipped at Arthur’s lower lip, tongue sliding over it.  
  
He kissed like it was the last kiss he would ever have. He opened his mouth, pulled in Arthur’s tongue and sucked on it, brushed his fingertips over Arthur’s face and through his hair, trying to reach everything he could. He let out a sigh through his nose and moaned faintly. Kissing Arthur was better than anything he had ever had before—he revelled in the feeling of Arthur’s soft lips, his tongue sliding over his teeth, his hands at the back of his neck, _everything_ and he wanted so much more.  
  
“Bedroom. Eames,” Arthur whispered, pulling away the slightest bit. Eames growled and tried to move in again. “ _Eames_ ,” Arthur sighed before dragging Eames up by his shirt and kissing him again as he dragged him to the bedroom.  
  
Eames grunted and was all too happy to follow. He let his hands wander over Arthur’s body—down his sides and over his hips, sliding down his chest and untucking his shirt to push a hand up it to feel his _skin_ and oh, _God_ it was glorious. Hard muscles and lithe bone wrapped in soft skin and it made Eames want so much _more_.  
  
He was suddenly toppling over on top of Arthur as they moved on top of the bed. Eames wasted no time unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt and sliding it over his shoulders. He pulled back to stare at Arthur, throat suddenly going dry as he watched Arthur’s chest rise and fall, lips red and wet, eyes half-lidded and he was fucking beautiful.   
  
“Darling,” he whispered. He leaned down and brushed his lips over Arthur’s collarbone. He poked his tongue out and tasted the skin there, bit lightly and sucked to leave a mark. Arthur gnawed on his swollen bottom lip and arched into Eames’s mouth, breath stuttering in his chest.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur gritted out.  
  
“Ssh,” Eames chuckled, sliding lower, licking a stripe down the center of Arthur’s chest. He sighed at the feel of Arthur’s skin under his tongue, blew cool air against the wet stripe and watched as goosebumps cropped up over Arthur’s stomach. He grinned and scraped his cheek over Arthur’s stomach, feeling him jolt against the scratch of stubble against his sensitive skin.  
  
He let his lips brush lower down Arthur’s body, kissing around his naval, nipping just below it. He heard Arthur let out an almost frustrated breath and laughed. “Impatient?”  
  
“Just hurry up,” Arthur growled, slinging his arm over his eyes, hiding his flushed cheeks.  
  
Eames grinned wider and hummed, amused. He wanted to take full advantage of this moment. He wouldn’t be able to count the number of fantasies he’d had about having Arthur panting and flushed underneath him. The fact that this, in fact, _wasn’t_ a fantasy was still having trouble wrapping itself around his head. The fact that Arthur was here willingly sent a spike of arousal straight through him.  
  
He unbuckled Arthur’s belt and tugged his pants down. Arthur let out a sharp breath, freezing up for a moment before helping Eames as he squirmed out of his pants. Eames hummed appreciatively glanced up at Arthur momentarily before tilting his head and flattening his tongue over the curve of Arthur’s cock, still covered by his black boxer-briefs.  
  
“Fuck,” Arthur hissed, head tilting back, exposing his neck.  
  
Eames licked upwards, ever so slowly, fabric rough against his tongue. Arthur let out the most delicious moan, trying to stifle it by biting his arm. Eames sucked the wet fabric, with just enough pressure to have Arthur arching his hips up and letting out a frustrated little “ _Eames_ ”.  
  
Eames snickered, but obliged in the unspoken request. He peeled Arthur’s briefs from his hips, slowly as he possibly could, sliding them down long legs and eventually just flicking them away. Eames hadn’t shed a scrap of clothing yet, but seeing Arthur there, spread out before him, hard and nude and _perfect_ , Eames couldn’t help but freeze a little bit.  
  
“Arthur—” he murmured, still not able to believe that this was _Arthur_ spread out underneath him.  
  
“You can undress, too, Eames,” Arthur laughed breathlessly, reaching up and unbuttoning his shirt. Eames loosed his tie and threw it off to the side as Arthur continued to work on his shirt, slipping out of it once it was completely undone. He quickly tugged off his pants after that, letting out a sigh of relief as his boxers came down and his rapidly hardening cock met the cool air.  
  
He slid back up, moulding his body against Arthur’s, revelling in the feeling of skin against skin, sliding his cock against Arthur’s and _fuck_ that was good.  
  
“Come on, Eames,” Arthur groaned, nipping at Eames’s bottom lip. “Hurry up and fuck me for fuck’s sake.”  
  
Eames’s moaned softly against Arthur’s mouth and smirked. “Have no fear, darling,” he purred, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a _week_ without being reminded of me.”  
  
“Only a week?” Arthur snickered, arching his back and grinding against Eames.  
  
“You little minx,” Eames laughed, glancing around the room. Arthur took the hint and slid up momentarily to dig around in the bedside table’s drawer. He pressed a half-empty bottle of lube and a rumpled condom into Eames’s hand. “Fucking hell, Arthur, how old is this thing?” he snickered, holding up the crumpled condom package.  
  
“It’s still functional, now shut the fuck up and do it.”  
  
“Eager, aren’t we?” Eames grinned. “Patience is a virtue, love.”  
  
“So is efficiency, Mr. Eames,” Arthur hissed, spreading his legs wider, inviting.  
  
Eames couldn’t say no to that. He licked his lips and slid down the bed, resting between Arthur’s legs. He spread some lube liberally over his fingers before pushing one into Arthur, making sure to take his sweet time. Arthur took in a sharp breath above him and shifted the slightest bit, hook a leg over Eames’s shoulder. Eames tilted his head to trail feather-light kisses along Arthur’s smooth inner thigh. He moved his hand slowly still, revelling in the annoyed noises Arthur was making.  
  
He sucked on a patch of pale skin on Arthur’s inner thigh as he pushed in a second finger. He hardly waited that time for Arthur to adjust, simply pushed in and twisted his fingers.  
  
“Fuck—!” Arthur hissed, body jerking and leg tightening around Eames’s shoulder. “Shit, Eames... oh, fuck,” he groaned.  
  
Eames hummed triumphantly and scissored his fingers, twisting them deep inside Arthur. He moved them quickly, licked a strip along the underside of Arthur’s cock and watched him jerk and arch above him, eyes wide and wild. His own dick was painfully hard at this point, just watching the way Arthur’s hands fisted into the sheets and listening to the breathless little noises he was making.  
  
Eames loved it. He couldn’t get enough.  
  
“Fuck, Eames, come on—” Arthur groaned, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “Fuck me already, you _bastard_ or I swear to God—”  
  
Eames laughed and kept his fingers moving as he tore open the foil condom package and rolled it on easily. He only withdrew his fingers to smear his cock with lube and lean over Arthur, staring at him straight in the eyes. “Think you’ve waited long enough?”  
  
“ _God_ yes, already, hurry _up_ ,” Arthur very near whined.  
  
Eames couldn’t stop grinning as he pulled one of Arthur’s legs over his shoulder, letting the other one rest on his hip. He lined himself up, hands _trembling_ and entire body feeling like it was on fire and burning to feel Arthur from the inside.  
  
He kissed Arthur as he pushed in, each inch feeling tighter and hotter than the last and _fuck_ —  
  
Eames had to muster up all the self-control he had left in his body not to grab onto Arthur’s hips and slam into him. He rested his hands on Arthur’s thighs, trying not to come just from the feeling of being inside him and the sight of Arthur, pupils blown wide and mouth hanging open.  
  
“Arthur—fuck, I—” Eames panted, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck.  
  
“Move, Eames, _Jesus_ ,” Arthur ground out, back curved to press close as he could to Eames.  
  
Eames honestly couldn’t deny a request like that. He let out a breathless chuckle and gripped Arthur’s thighs tighter for some sort of leverage. He pulled out and snapped his hips in, moving quickly and not being able to help himself. Arthur was making all of these delicious, unrestrained noises, mumbling _fuck_ and _Eames_ like a mantra, digging his nails into Eames’s shoulders and dragging them down.  
  
Eames groaned at the feeling and moved faster, moving his hands to Arthur’s hips to pull them back to meet his thrusts. “Arthur, fuck, oh _God_ ,” Eames moaned against Arthur’s neck, biting down on his earlobe. When he pulled back to drive in _harder_ —because fuck he needed _more_ —he saw one of Arthur’s hands had moved down and was jerking at his cock in time with Eames’s thrusts.  
  
He groaned at the sight and let out breathy calls of _Arthur Arthur Arthur oh fuck_ over and over. He drove in hard, watching as Arthur’s other hand came up to his mouth to lap at his fingertips, like it was something he did subconsciously and Eames damn near _whimpered_.  
  
His orgasm hit him like a fucking freight train.  
  
He groaned and his head fell forward, hips snapping spasmodically. Arthur whined and kept jerking himself, even after Eames had stilled. Arthur came moments later, back arching into a perfect curve as he coated his hand and stomach in white streaks.  
  
Eames pulled out, hands shaking, and tied the condom off, tossing it in the trash bin beside the bed.  
  
He flopped down onto his back beside Arthur after and sighed, feeling so entirely _satisfied_ , right down to his bones.  
  
“Jesus,” Eames whispered.  
  
“No kidding,” Arthur mumbled, looking just as beat as Eames felt. “You can... stay if you want, you know. I don’t mind.”  
  
Eames hummed and slid a hesitant arm around Arthur’s waist. “Do you want me to?”  
  
Arthur paused and looked like he was considering that statement. Eames could almost see the gears turning in his head. It was almost adorable. “Yeah. I do.”  
  
“Alright then,” Eames hummed and rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into a pillow and keeping an arm slung around Arthur.  
  
Eames felt so utterly content and sated and wonderful laying there with Arthur, naked and warm, under his arm. He felt sleepy, but wanted to stay awake just to memorize this moment because it was so entirely perfect. He couldn’t help falling asleep after awhile, though, giving into that bone-deep exhaustion that he felt.  
  
His last thought before he drifted off, though, was how he could _really_ get used to this.


End file.
